Now, the idea of this life-sized car made of a million tiny pieces crashing into a wall, splintering completely, rippled and warped by physics I’m too dumb to comprehend, is sincerely all I can think about. I can’t even accurately describe how viscerally satisfying this visual would be; all I can ask is that you close your eyes and imagine it.

The more that I think about it, I’m mad that this car was not crashed immediately after being built. The fact that this thing is just trundling around intact is an affront to the notion of human pleasure. This Lego car is deferred enjoyment embodied, and that I haven’t already watched it explode into an uncountable number of tiny pieces should be a crime. In a way it mirrors the experience of non-Lego luxury cars, which have an aura of enjoyment but often end up stashed in a climate-controlled garage most of the year.

Lego, if you’re reading this, crash the Bugatti. Given that it only goes about 18 miles per hour, you might have to figure out how (that shouldn’t be a problem, considering you built a working car out of Lego), but please: do it in the name of gratification, of being alive, of not bottling up human effort into the mausoleum of a luxury object. Do it for how freaking sick it would be.